


As Dreamers Do

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Disney World & Disneyland, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Sam wants to go to Disneyland. Dad and Dean have other plans.





	As Dreamers Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the [asksamstuff contest](http://asksamstuff.tumblr.com/post/159069841794/) over on tumblr. The post this fic is based on can be found [here](http://asksamstuff.tumblr.com/post/105673121454/).
> 
> As always, shout-out to [themegalosaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus) for helping me get this fic in posting shape.

It’s about the time Dean plugs Guns N’ Roses into the tape deck again that Sam decides he’s pretty much done with California. They’ve been on the road for hours through the desert, nothing around them except scrubby brushland and distant mountains. Everything is brown and dry and dead. The sun through the window feels hot enough to melt skin. Every once in a while Dad grumbles about “goddamn hippie drivers,” and Dean keeps craning his neck to look out the window at girls driving sports cars.

In the backseat, Sam picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans. He’s grown another inch in the past few months and the pants—thrift-store bought—are too short in the ankle again. His shirt, a hand-me-down from Dean, is baggy on him, but still sticks to his back and underarms with sweat, heavy and uncomfortable. There’s a sliver of shadow slanting across the seat and Sam tries to find shelter in it, but even with the windows rolled down the July heat is sweltering, and the leather seats are hot to the touch. Sam can feel his heartbeat in his sweaty palms.

The opening chords of “Paradise City” blast through the speakers too loud for comfort, and Sam announces, “I have to pee.”

Sam spends maybe a couple minutes extra in the washroom adjacent to the gas station, even though the whole place reeks of urine and there’s fuzzy mold creeping up the tile walls. He splashes cold water on his face and soaks in the cool air, the blissful silence.

Back outside, Dad is topping up the gas tank and Dean’s inside the convenience store, talking to the pretty clerk behind the counter. She’s wearing a lot of makeup. Dean is leaning against the counter with one hip, smiling at her with one side of his mouth. It’s something he’s started doing more since he turned fifteen at the beginning of the year, like he thinks he’s old enough to pull it off now. Sam thinks it makes him look lopsided.

When Dean emerges, a swagger in his step and that grin still plastered on his face, he hands Sam a rolled-up magazine and a candy bar. Sam mumbles his thanks and climbs reluctantly into the car, dreading another several hours trapped in the stifling backseat.

The thought of eating the candy bar in this heat turns Sam’s stomach, but he doesn’t have anywhere cool to store it. It slowly melts on the seat beside him as he flips through the magazine, some sort of tourist guide for kids, about national parks and zoos and aquariums across the state. As he leafs through the pages, a loose pamphlet slips out of the middle of the magazine and into his lap. There’s a picture of a castle on the front, and bold purple lettering:

DISNEYLAND: COME ENJOY THE MAGICAL KINGDOM!

Dad always calls amusement parks a “cash grab,” says there’s nothing there worth seeing. Last year, when they were living in Nebraska, Dean took Sam to the local summer fair. They plowed through three bags of mini doughnuts and Dean helped Sam stuff his sneakers with newspaper so he was tall enough to ride the roller coaster with the loop-the-loop. Sam threw up into the grass after that, and Dean hovered around him and said anxiously, “Aw, man. Come on, Sammy,” but didn’t put up much of a protest when Sam made him ride it again.

There are roller coasters inside the pamphlet on Sam’s lap. None of them have a loop-the-loop, but some of them have animatronic characters right next to the tracks, like Brer Rabbit from the movie Dean had taken him to see during the few months when they lived in Illinois. Sam gets even more excited when he discovers pictures of an entire island with a forest right in the middle of the park. It’s called Tom Sawyer Island. Sam read that book a couple of years ago. He didn’t so much like the haunted house parts, but the idea of wandering through endless caves, exploring, getting lost, made his heart beat a little faster even reading it.

There are some things that stand out to Sam as he flips through the pages. One of them is food. Apparently there’s all sorts of different food at Disneyland, not just mini doughnuts and churros but real restaurants with real food three meals a day. And in almost every picture there are families, moms and dads and kids all smiling around tables loaded with food and smiling walking through the park and riding the attractions and watching the parade at night while the sky lights up with a hundred sparkly fireworks.

When he gets to the back of the pamphlet he finds an address, in smaller lettering: 1313 Disneyland Dr, Anaheim, CA 92802, USA.

Sam’s stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast—cold leftover mac and cheese from dinner last night. He picks up the candy bar on the seat beside him. It’s warm, and the chocolate inside has already turned mushy. Dad will kill him if he gets any on the seats, so Sam rips off a corner of the packaging and squeezes a bit of chocolate out like toothpaste. The liquefied chocolate is warm and too sugary, and it instantly makes Sam thirsty.

Even though he’s being careful, he manages to get chocolate on his hands anyway, and accidentally smears some on the pamphlet still in his lap. While he casts around for some napkins, and maybe a bottle of water too, snippets of Dad and Dean’s conversation in the front of the car drift back to him. They’re talking about some guy they’re going hunting with, planning to meet up with him later today. Sam isn’t paying much attention, until he hears Dad say, “…call him as soon as we get to Anaheim.”

Sam looks down at the pamphlet. He sits up straight, heart lurching in his throat, and leans forward. “Anaheim?”

+

As it turns out, Disneyland is not the only thing in Anaheim. There are also huge stretches of industrial buildings and factories, and a lot of residential areas, and, apparently, a harpy killing people in Santiago Oaks Regional Park. Sam doesn’t get a glimpse of anything remotely castle-shaped during the drive, sees almost nothing other than industrial yards and residential neighbourhoods before they pull into a Motel 6 on the side of the freeway.

Dad gives Sam some money and sends him to the restaurant down the street to bring back dinner while he and Dean get ready for the hunt tonight. Sam orders a clubhouse for himself and burgers for Dad and Dean. When he gets back to the room, the two of them are sitting at the kitchenette table cleaning their guns and counting ammunition. Dad mutters his thanks when Sam presents him with the bag of food, but neither of them looks up at him.

The half-broken ceiling fan in their room doesn’t do much to cut down the heat, so Sam grabs his backpack, goes outside and sits in the shade next to the ice machine to eat his sandwich. Then he unzips his backpack and stacks his belongings next to him on the ground, cataloguing. A battered library book. An assortment of chewed-up pens. His hoodie. A few green army men. The new magazine and pamphlet go on the top of the pile. It’s a ritual he does sometimes, when they get to a new place, if he can find enough privacy for it.

Sam stays outside until the sun has started to sink low and it’s finally starting to cool off. His watch says it’s after nine o’clock. Eventually, Dean comes outside and finds him, leans against the ice machine and says, “Hey. You’re good with sitting tight after Dad and I head out?”

Sam shrugs, draws his knees in closer to himself.

Dean sighs, then lowers himself down next to Sam on the pavement. “What’s eating you? You’ve been moody all day.”

“Nothing,” Sam says. He rests his chin on his folded knees. He keeps his gaze resolutely forward but Dean is already looking at the pile of things between them, the pamphlet stacked neatly on top.

Dean picks it up, examines it closely. “Oh. Is this from your magazine?”

Sam nods. He says, “I just thought.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, careful. “You know Dad can’t afford anything like this, right?”

“I know,” Sam snaps, gathering up his traitorous belongings and shoving them back into his bag. “I’m not stupid.”

Dean looks over the pamphlet for another minute. Then he says, “Tomorrow, after Dad and I take care of this business, we’ll go to Disneyland. Just you and me. I can get us in.”

For the first time since he came outside, Sam looks at his brother. “Really?”

Dean does that half-crooked smile again, the one he thinks makes him look grown-up. “Sure thing, kid.”

+

Sam falls asleep thinking about fireworks. He wakes up groggy at some indeterminate time when Dad and Dean come through the door and the light turns on. Dad is holding Dean’s arm around his neck and Dean’s head is sagging into his chest. There’s blood on both of them. Sam’s chest gets tight and his heart starts beating too fast.

Dad says, “Sam. Get towels.”

It’s an order, delivered in that urgent tone Sam only knows to obey. Suddenly alert, Sam climbs out of bed, goes into the bathroom and gathers up all the towels.

“Good,” Dad says. He’s still holding Dean up. “Now lay them out on the bed.”

Sam does as he’s told, spreading the towels over the bed opposite his. Then Dad guides Dean to lay down on his stomach on them. Dean moans when he’s moved. Up close, Sam can see that his brother is shivering, little twitches and tremors in his face and hands. He’s pale, almost the same colour as the off-white towels he’s lying on, which are slowly turning pink with his blood.

Dad gets his first aid kit and cuts the back of Dean’s t-shirt open, exposing three ragged claw marks extending from the juncture of his neck down his shoulder blades and into the meat of his back. The cuts are deep, still bleeding sluggishly. Dad covers them quickly with a towel, holds it down to stop the bleeding, but the sight is enough to turn Sam’s stomach.

“Dad!” he says, panicking.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dad says, opening the black bag where he keeps spell ingredients. “Looks worse than it is. I bet it feels that way too, huh Dean?”

Dean nods jerkily. His face is twisted up with pain, white except where he’s bitten his lip bloody, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. Sam doesn’t want to look at him anymore.

“Why didn’t you take him to the hospital?” Sam asks. His voice is high and thready in his own ears.

“Harpy venom,” Dad says, pulling several bottles of liquid and powder out of the bag. “The wound won’t heal unless we give him the antidote first. Nothing the doctors could do for him. Now do me a favour and keep the pressure on it while I mix this up.”

Sam swallows down the nausea rolling up in his throat and reaches out to clamp down on the towel covering Dean’s shoulder. There’s blood seeping through already, and Sam can’t avoid touching it with his bare hands. Dean smells sharp, like sweat and fear. He’s gripping the sheets at the edge of the bed with bloodied fingers. His breath hitches on every inhale, jerking under Sam’s hand, shudders out on a moan when Sam presses down harder.

Sam’s voice shakes when he says, reflexively, “Dean.”

“Sam,” Dad says, sharp. “Focus.”

Sam tries taking a deep breath. It doesn’t help.

The room is quiet while Dad mixes the antidote in a water glass from the cupboard—a few ingredients Sam can’t keep track of, plus a crushed-up feather from the harpy. The silence is punctuated only by the helpless noises Dean makes, the ones that scrape up from his chest and sink their claws into Sam, making him feel cold and sick.

When the antidote is ready, Dad cups the back of Dean’s neck with one hand and holds the glass to his lips. Dean takes a sip, his throat moving as he swallows. Then he sags back against the bed, his lips parted, some of the agony smoothed out of his face.

“Good, Dean.” Dad puts a hand on Dean’s forehead, lifts the towel to check the wound with the other. His thumb brushes against Dean’s hair, damp with sweat. “Bleeding’s slowed already. We just have to get you stitched up and we’ll be done.”

Dean nods, or it might be another shiver, his eyes slipping closed. His head leans into the touch. Dad only ever touches them like that when they’re really sick.

Dad gets the first aid kit again. He pulls out a needle and thread, bandages, sterilizing wipes, and lays them out on a fresh towel. “Keep still, now,” he says.

Dean says, “Yes, sir.” It sounds like someone took sandpaper to his throat. His knuckles have turned white from how hard he’s gripping the edge of the bed. Despite his attempts to steel himself, when Dad sterilizes the wounds Dean still reacts like he’s been burned, twisting and arching off the bed, crying out sharply.

“Hold him down,” Dad barks, and Sam gets his hands on Dean’s unharmed shoulder, presses down hard while his brother thrashes desperately to escape the pain.

Eventually Dean quiets down and quits struggling so much. His breaths come hard and shallow. There’s perspiration dripping from his hairline down his face, his neck. He’s shaking visibly.

Dad threads the needle, tells Sam, “Talk to him. Keep him awake.”

Dean flinches a little when Dad punctures the skin to make the first suture, his breath stuttering out on a moan, but he’s not fighting so hard like before. Sam crouches down next to the bed so he’s level with Dean. His brother’s eyes are open but glazed over, like he’s somewhere far away. Even so, they roll to meet Sam’s. His throat moves convulsively, like he’s trying to speak.

Sam realizes he doesn’t have any idea what to say to his brother. Despite how close they already are, the thought of touching Dean frightens him. Instead of speaking, Sam goes to his backpack, gets out the book he’s been reading:  _ The Neverending Story _ . It’s an old copy, battered and marked up with pen, stolen from the library of his school back in Montana. It’s summer vacation now, but Sam knows he’ll never be back to return the book, even though Dad hasn’t said anything about it yet.

He’s already halfway through the book, but he flips back to the first page for Dean’s sake, begins reading aloud: “Outside, it was a gray, cold, rainy November morning…”

As he reads, Sam has to stop once in a while to shake Dean gently when his eyes start to close. Dean doesn’t resist other than to flinch or hiss in pain, hands clenching reflexively. It’s a long time before Dad finishes stitching Dean up. By the time he’s done and the wounds have been transformed into neat lines of surgical sutures, Sam’s throat is sore from talking.

After Dad bandages the wounds, he gets up, pulls a spare blanket from the closet by the door and covers Dean with it, tucks it in around his waist. Then he takes out the silver flask he keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket, unscrews the cap. Sam expects him to take a drink, the way he normally does after a hunt. Instead, he nudges Sam out of the way, crouches down next to Dean, and coaxes him to take a sip. Dean grimaces at the taste but drinks willingly enough. Dad says something low, so Sam can’t hear, and Dean nods wearily in response, closing his eyes again.

Then Dad turns to Sam. “Good work, Sammy,” he says. “You can wash up and go on back to bed, now.”

Sam rises unsteadily from the ground, goes into the washroom. The water turns pink when he washes his hands, and he keeps scrubbing until it runs clear and his hands are raw and stinging. When he comes back into the room, Dad has turned off most of the lights and pulled one of the hard kitchen chairs next to the bed to sit in and keep watch over his son. Dean appears to be asleep. The flask is nowhere in sight.

Sam climbs under the covers of his bed. Something crinkles under him. The magazine. The pamphlet with the castle and the island with the caves and the fireworks. He crumples them both, shoves them both into his bag. He shuts his eyes tight, thinks about empty forests and the winding mazes of caves where he could get lost and no one could ever find him. When he dreams, it’s of razor-sharp talons and neat rows of black stitches.

+

They stay another two days in the room while Dean recovers. When it’s still grey, Dad shakes Sam awake and tells him to watch Dean while he goes out to get rid of the towels Dean bled all over. He comes back with a brown paper bag full of pills. They help with the pain but make Dean sick to his stomach, and he can’t keep anything down except water for a long time.

When the air in the room gets too close and Sam feels like he can’t breathe, he goes and sits outside by the ice machine again where it’s quiet and there’s a breeze. He stays out until the evening, finishing the last two hundred pages of his book. After that, he keeps sitting there until Dad tells him to come inside.

Sam is almost relieved when Dad tells him they’ll be leaving in the morning. Dean still looks too pale. He hasn’t gotten up much except to use the bathroom, and when he does he’s unsteady, obviously in pain despite how he tries to hide it. But Sam’s overwhelming desire to get out of the cramped little room outweighs any will he has to protest.

In the car, Dean is clearly uncomfortable. He can’t lean back against the seat without putting pressure on his shoulder, and he winces at every bump in the road. He takes more of the pills when Dad isn’t looking. Dad says they aren’t going far, less than a day’s drive to a hunting cabin in the woods where they can stay for a couple of weeks while Dean heals properly. (Well, Sam assumes Dad means that Sam and Dean can stay there while he goes off and hunts on his own.)

A couple of hours into the drive, Dad pulls over at a truck stop to make a call from a payphone. When they’re alone in the car, Dean struggles to turn around in his seat, letting out a strangled little sound when the movement pulls at his shoulder.

“Sammy,” he says. He hasn’t spoken much today and he sounds worn-down. His eyes are hollow and he’s still too pale, freckles standing out sharp on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Hey. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I’m fine. You?”

“Aces,” Dean says. The reassurance is half-hearted. “I’m sorry.”

Now Sam’s curious. “About what?”

“I know you really wanted to go to Disneyland. See the fireworks. I promised.”

Dean sounds earnest, but Sam flushes with embarrassment anyway. The crumpled pamphlet is still at the bottom of his bag. Dean was getting clawed to shreds by a monster while Sam was warm in bed and fantasizing about fireworks. He never should have said anything in the first place, should have taken the trip seriously, the way Dad would want.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. We can go next time.”

“Yeah.” Apparently satisfied, Dean sits forward in his seat again, flinches as he tries to get comfortable. “Next time.”

Then Dad comes back and Sam turns his gaze out the window, watches until the smooth sun-drenched hills and palm trees eventually give way to crumbling mountaintops and the endless green of some dark forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com/).


End file.
